


The Bastard and the Addict

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Awkward situations, Being true to yourself, Cliches about falling in love with your consulting detective, Declarations Of Love, Family, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Heartache, Honesty, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I keep telling myself that it happened, Idiots in Love, It really happened, John's jumbled mind, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, More Fluff, My First Smut, Need, POV John Watson, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romantic love, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is a Good Parent, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Thinking it over, With flashbacks to missing scenes, a lot of love, getting caught, light humor, personal conflict, walking in the rain, what really happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John Watson has a hell of a lot to think about, and it's getting more difficult for him to make sense of what is real and what is in his head.In an attempt to clear up the confusion, he leaves Sherlock home alone with Rosie while he takes a walk around the city to think things over and, finally, make the decision.Turns out, it had been made long ago.





	1. Stepping out

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP. Rated M for later chapters. Honestly, I detested the ending of season 4, and felt our boys (and us) really didn't get the emotional closure they (we) deserved! This is a rambling little tale to try and make it right. Meow.

 

When I decided to leave them, I kissed Rosie's little brunette head without a second thought.  
  
It was easy to leave her with Sherlock now. Not that it was ever very difficult, but there was a time when I would have hesitated to do so, or felt the need to list all of the things he needed to remember to NOT do while acting as her guardian. I almost grinned at the memory of those days, but then I don't, feeling my lips pull down instead of up. Too many conflicting thoughts flickered in my mind as I ran my fingers through her downy hair and watched her smile with two little teeth showing. She looked up at me in her wobbly way, then back at Sherlock, in whose arms she was sitting happily.

He looked at me with a question on his brow, but I don't ask what it is. 

"Just. Need to go for a walk. You know." I told him, gesturing vaguely toward the door. 

He nodded, looking past me, then down at Rosie. I know he wonders more than he shows. He wanted to ask me why and where, but I wouldn't give him room to as I leaned down to give my little girl another quick peck on her pink cheek, letting myself feel fatherly and gentle. 

Swiftly, stupidly, I caught myself leaning to place a kiss on the head of the man who was holding her.

It took me half a moment to realize what I was doing and change course, moving past Sherlock's stiff, surprised expression to reach for a plush left on the back of the couch. I could feel him deflate slightly beside me as I stood to pass the toy to Rosie, who was clearly disinterested in anything other than her beloved Godfather. She batted the plush and reached for his hair with glee, babbling gibberish at him.

I could feel myself getting warm in the cheeks as he carefully avoided my eye and swallowed visibly. 

  
He had obviously seen. And what's worse is, I could not tell if he was embarrassed for the mistake, or disappointed. God, I needed to get out of there.

Biting the inside of my mouth, I could hear the familiar chorus in my head, getting angry with myself.

  
"Idiot. Fool. Mistake.'  
  
I shook my head, feeling almost ill as I turned away to grab my coat. I couldn't look back at him. It was mortifying how much I was blushing, and I knew he'd already seen too much. 

"Be back in a little while." I told him as I passed through the door. "Text me if you need. Anything."

There was no reply behind me, but I could feel his eyes on me as I left. 

 


	2. Vividly

 

 

         As I stepped onto the street, the first of the drizzle settled on my skin and I felt a chill pass through me. The weather was cold and miserable, leaving the sidewalks largely empty in the darkness of the evening. Part of me was tempted to turn back and return to the warmth of the flat and the quiet sounds of the fireplace, but it would not do. I needed this time. I needed the space to think it through. Everything was piling up in the back of my mind and there was simply no way to sort through it all while in the presence of the man who put it all there.   
The pavement passed under my feet quickly, leaving behind the two people in this world who meant the most to me. I felt my heart quicken at that thought, so I lowered my head and walked faster until humid heat had risen and I could feel the frigid mist mixing with warm sweat on my hairline. Think. I just needed a little time to think.

"Deep breaths, Watson. You're alright."

At one time, I had thought the thing I did best was keeping myself under control. I would lose my temper from time to time, but I really had felt that I could keep it together when it was most important. Most necessary.   
What a miserable realization to have break upon you, when you see yourself acting like a madman, without an ounce of sense or reason. The wounds one can inflict. The absolute horrors.

A few blocks had passed by and my chest began to ache so severely that I nearly stopped, needing to breathe. It wasn't the exercise. It was the recollection of the things I had done. I could see him in my mind. All the times I'd hurt him running around in my head like a film, looping back and playing over. The worst of those hurts kept flashing vividly before me, making every limb feel weak.

His labored gasps as I kicked my boots into his flesh. The sight of his fallen body curling protectively against the onslaught unleashed by a man he trusted. The restrained cries of pain as I poured all my rage and grief into making him suffer. The sight of his blood.

 _His blood_.

Broken from his fair skin by my own hands. All while that bastard, Culverton Smith, watched in delight. 

I had attacked him as viciously as I could. Unrestrained. Hateful. Brutal. And it is the look in his eyes that haunts me most.   
Because he understood why. And he accepted it. 

I gave in and stopped suddenly, the memory causing bile to rise in my throat.

For a moment, I really thought I might be sick. My eyes felt hot, a prickling sensation overwhelming me. Leaning forward, I worked to suck in deep streams of air and tried to ground myself. The attempt was made more difficult by a simple knowledge. That I hadn't deserve his forgiveness. Not for that. Not for what I had done to him, there. 

But not just to him. To everyone. 

I betrayed everyone I loved. I had deserved to be alone. To let that guilt and self-hate gnaw at my insides until the day I would finally die, fully and completely alone. That was the fate I had planned for myself. That was the fate I felt I deserved.  
Anxiety reached its icy hand into my chest, it's familiar words rising in my mind.   
  
"It's what you deserve. What you've always deserved." 

That voice would be right. I knew it was. I believed it and I hated it. And yet, for reasons i cannot fathom, he didn't let me give up. Against everything I knew was my due, he called me back. Called me back from the edge of self-destruction b sacrificing everything he had to offer; his health, his mind, down to his very life. And I nearly let him lose them all.

But still, he called me back. And with open arms, no less. 

A tear threatened to spill over from my eyes, and I wiped it away viciously with my palm. I was glad to be alone. There was no one in this city who could bear to see a busted old soldier cry. 

Well. Almost no one.  
  
I stood up timidly, letting the apprehension be chased away by the reality of what had come after the fact. The reality of what I had been given. Another shot at redemption.

I started moving again, slowly. A few paces later I was walking swiftly, leaving behind the image of Sherlock's limp form on the cold floor of the morgue. A deep breath followed. Warmth flooded the into the place where only hurt had existed, and I closed my eyes while I carried on.  
A whiff of familiar scent soothed me. It was likely from the clothes I was wearing. The smells of 221b had settled back into every article after moving back in. I relished them. They were smells of comfort, of home. Of forgiveness and second chances. Of everything dark and beautiful that I had kept locked in my heart since the day I met the mad genius who would, at that moment, be putting my daughter to sleep in her crib. 

Hmm. My heart. 

How long since I had actually listened to my own heart? When was the last time I had been honest about what lived there? The last time I had lived something that was not marred with little lies, or built on a foundation that was flawed from that start?

I took a slow breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Anger management breathing. 

 

I could almost feel it. His hand on my neck again.

The gentle warmth that resonated from his body, thin and abused and so close to my own. A pillar of strength against the crashing seas of my emotions. The confessions of that afternoon ripped me open like never before. I was flayed, left to be picked apart or tossed away in disgust. And yet, I was met with kindness. A kindness I would never be capable of repaying.   
That was the first, perhaps the only time, that I had volunteered my true and honest colours to anyone. My selfishness. My neediness. My shame. And Sherlock met them without judgement, without repulsion. It was...extraordinary.

No one else would have cared for me after such an announcement. No one else would have opened their arms and held me, cradled me close, while I wept openly for all my failures.

God, the things I had felt in those minutes. I wasn't sure I would ever be able to let go of him after that. I nearly didn't.

My hand had snaked it's away around his back, fist bunching his shirt and pulling him closer. He did not resist, but tightened his grip. My messy tears had soaked through the expensive fabric of his shirt, and he had not so much as sighed. I never wanted to let him be away from me again. I knew Molly was on her way, but I would not let go of him. It was the only time I had actually held him. It was not something I would easily give up. I couldn't. I needed his forgiveness. Craved it. Craved his scent, his embrace, the feeling of his heart beating rebelliously in his chest while I listened through the thin cage of his ribs. In that one perfect, painful piece of time, I felt like everything might just be okay. We would finally be okay.

It also became clear that I could never go back to how we had been before. Not on my side. Something had cracked open in me, and I could see the light leaking through the hard shell that I lived in. Built upon years of outward denial and inward knowledge.

Yes, The things I felt in those minutes. I still don't have words. There was no one else in existence at that moment. No one but him. 

Sherlock Holmes. My best friend. The man who called me his family. 

His family. 

I slowed my paces as I reached the edge of the Thames. The black water moved slowly past the place where I stood, a great dark shadow under the city lights. A heavy sigh escaped my lungs as I leaned forward against the rails. The drizzle settled thickly over my hair and skin, making me shiver. I wished I had taken my scarf. Or at least stolen Sherlock's. Not sure that would have helped me think, in the long run. I wasn't ready to go home, yet.

Not yet. 

 

 


	3. Of Jealous hearts and Family

 

 

It was the reaction as natural as any, I was sure, when I felt myself smile as Sherlock shouted at his brother.

 

"Sherlock, this is family."

 

"That's WHY he STAYS."

 

Family.

That word kept rolling it's way across my thoughts. Family is good. Family is home and comfort, security and safety, honesty and bonds beyond those of friendship. Those are the bonds I had never really known in my life. So when he raised his voice, shouting down his own blood to claim a space in that sphere for me, of course I smiled. Of course I felt the honor of it. How could I not?   
What it did not imply, however, was romantic feelings. And I told myself I could accept that. Surely. Despite my rising desire to be close to the man, I could accept this station as family with my whole heart and never ask for anything more.   
That's what I told myself. I was not quite correct. 

 

The chill that had started to crawl into my skin set me moving again, paces quick against the drizzle. Bits of hair fell out of place, and I pushed them back with one hand while the other stayed warm in my jacket pocket. I had never kept my hair this long before. Not since college. Always a military cut after that. Why I had decided to change my hair I had never told a soul. I had tried to convince Mary it was to keep her interested. She laughed at me. She knew why. She always knew.

I felt my lips pull down as I thought of her. It was a rocky ride with Mary. Always a roller coaster. She was Mary, she wasn't. She was the woman who tried to kill my best friend, and then she saved him. She was the one who came between us, and tried to keep us together. I loved her and I hated her in equal measure. We were certainly not a sane match. Not at all. She and I both knew it. But I hated, more than anything else, how it ended. I hated that. 

I push my hair back with both hands, blinking away the sting that assaulted my eyes. I had taken time to grieve, but the memories still caused me pain. I was sure they always would.  
Blink it back, and keep going. Keep going. 

I can see her face on the laptop screen while I sit with Mrs. Hudson at my shoulder. Thank god for Martha. She had had quite enough of my bullshit.   
And there was Mary, message from the past, saying the words I never imagined she would.   
"-the man we both love..."

Fuck me, that struck a nerve. 

The hospital room after everyone had gone, and it was just he and I. We were quiet, then. Perfectly quiet. I kept staring at his hands, at the track marks on his arms, and feeling anguish right down to my core.   
The Doctor and the Detective.   
The Soldier and the Scientist.   
The Bastard and the Addict.

I wanted to hold his hand. Wanted to kiss his fingers and weep and ask his forgiveness, but we stayed silent until morning, side by side in the empty room.   
Tears would come later. 

 

I turned away from the river and passed up the street. I was moving in a great circle around Baker Street. Glancing up at a traffic light, I noticed a dark camera pointed at me from atop the post as I crossed the street, it's small red light blazing brightly. I took my hand from it's cozy pocket and offered up the one-finger salute as I carried on.   
Fucking Mycroft.  
I actually felt a little fond of him.

A woman passed me, and I felt my head turn and follow her as she walked.  
Not just any woman. She looked like...

THE woman. Spitting image.

I stopped and watched her go, her heeled boots clicking against the wet stones. I shook my head. It couldn't have been. Could it? Where was she coming from? Where was she going?

I could see the guilt on Sherlock's face as he told me he had, in fact, texted her back a few times. Never elaborated on that point, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. It stuck like a pin in my heart, sharp and insistent. Difficult to remove. I told him to go to her. I said it, ordered it.   
He didn't go. He wouldn't. He was a stupid as I. 

Seeing her pass, it didn't matter who it was that was walking down the street at that moment. The idea that it could be her, that she had just seen or was on her way to see him, or that she might be texting him again at that moment, made me clench my fist and tighten my jaw. She would not claim him.   
I turned on my heel and began my march home. 

Why? I asked myself.   
Jealousy? Perhaps. But if my motivation were strictly jealousy, that was a poor motive, indeed. Selfish. 

I closed my eyes again, slowing my anxious paces. Another deep breath. 

 

My mind turned to when I saw him after my rescue from that damn well.

Another of the darkest days we had ever lived though. And while I was down there, with the water pouring over me, I couldn't stop thinking about how he would never know. I would die in the dark, and he would never know because I had been so afraid to tell him. It was the second time that day the thought occurred to me. The first time was far more violent, and I did not relish the memory.

He had been ready to take his own life, again, to spare Mycroft and myself.  
The idiot nearly took himself from me, and right in front of me. For the fucking second time. I would have lost it.

I would have lost my god-damned mind. But no other option would do for him.

He hadn't even dared to lift the gun in my direction. Mycroft, the bastard, offered himself, first. I wouldn't allow myself to speculate to long as to why, but it got to the point where the reason dug into my skin and I had to give it some attention.

  
Because I was 'family'?  
  
Mycroft was family. Real family. 

Was it because I was a father?  
  
Yeah, a shit one at that.  
  
No. That wasn't it.  
  
Killing me. It didn't even cross his mind. I knew it wouldn't. It would not have crossed mine, either. 

And then there we were, standing outside his childhood summer home, sopping wet and exhausted. And we couldn't say anything. He just kept looking at me. He looked at me the whole way home, never saying a word. I had hoped for something more, hoped maybe I would finally have the courage. But I didn't dare. Not after everything he had been though. 

Baker street had been rebuilt in weeks, and he wouldn't stay anywhere else while it was re-done. The man does not like change. Afterward, it only seemed right for me to go back there. I didn't want to be alone, living with the ghost of a woman whose prints existed in every fixture, every linen and window. I didn't even ask him. I just kept bringing things over when I would come by. And he never said a word about it until almost everything was out of mine and Mary's town home.

One evening, I decided to simply put Rosie to bed upstairs, and then came down to sit down in my armchair. He was looking over photographs that Molly had brought by with a shy look on her face earlier that afternoon.

Ah, yes. Molly. They had seemed to be in limbo then as I watched from the far side of the room. She'd stayed at a distance for a while, after the I incident on the phone.  I had contacted her once. I wanted her to understand why he'd done what he'd done. That he wasn't trying to hurt her. She hadn't ever really responded. So when she came by, the room fell into suspenseful silence. She had looked at me first, and at him, working up to speaking out loud whatever was trapped in her mind. I felt myself tense, trying not to stare as she spoke.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I...I just..."

He had raised his hand to stop her, shaking his head and stepping toward her. He looked...sad.   
  
"You should never be sorry, Molly Hooper." He said, tentatively touching her arm as he spoke. "You are one of the finest people I have ever known, and I apologize for my behavior. I hope you will forgive me."

I had gaped and stared openly as she pulled at the sleeves of her sweater and blinked rapidly, looking at the floor a moment until she was ready to respond by simply nodding. They's smiled at each other then, a small, simple understanding. And then she'd turned her eyes to me. 

"I'm sorry, John."

I shook my head, not quite understanding why. It wasn't until later, while I watched him flip through the photos, that I acknowledge to myself why she offered an apology to me. I let a smile pass over my lips briefly. 

He didn't look at me, but his voice broke the silence.

"You're staying, then?"

I continued to watch him, his dark hair falling forward as he licked his bottom lip. A nervous tell. He didn't have many of those, but I had come to know very well what his were. 

"Yeah. If that's alright with you."

His eyes lifted from his work a moment, appraising me in a way that made my heart thunder. My hand twitched, a nervous tell of my own.   
His features softened, the corner of his mouth turning up. He looked back at the photos spread out before him.

" Of course."

And I was home.

I was home. Yes. It was time to go home.


	4. Long Desire

 

 

 

   By the time I found myself passing the familiar buildings that line Baker street, I was lost again in doubt. It's such an easy thing, to doubt. It sneaks into your mind through any crack or crease, sliding in like a shadow until it looms large over everything else hidden inside. 

The doubt, of course, was about how Sherlock was going to react when I got home. I held no reservations about my own intentions, but I sorely wished I had more confidence in knowing the way he would respond to me. 

But...did I not have the answer already?

All these things, these moments stored away in my heart. There must be something there to give me the courage I needed. We had, after all, shared every kind of experience together. Nearly, anyways. From imminent danger to multiple deaths and near-death experiences. Fighting and falling apart, marriage and murder. We had danced alone together, hidden away in 221B, and shared meals and truth and toothpaste.

God...the dancing lessons. I'm not sure I'd ever been so conflicted. Until my bachelor party, that is, when I would have given up the whole charade of a wedding to have him.   
  
_"_ _I don't mind."_  

I really, really didn't.

And then came the shooting. And every hideous moment afterward. I would never forgive myself for staying with Mary after the shooting. I would never forget how much of a betrayal it was. Always wonder if it was the right thing to do. But he was always so patient with me.  
So very patient.  
  
I remember closing the drapes so the neighbors wouldn't see us, with Sherlock starting up the music behind me. I could practically hear his eyes rolling back in his head at my precautions.

I wonder now if he were insulted that I felt it important to hide?  
  
He'd recorded his composition. The first time he played it I had to pretend to be bothered by the dust, my eyes were so misty. It was such beautiful music. So gut-wrenchingly sad. Like being punched in the stomach, but hurting so much more. Then he showed me how to put my hand on his back and hold his other, since I was leading.

I couldn't hide the tremors in my hands. Couldn't cover the awkwardness in my expression. It was made so much worse by knowing that he could read every single thought in my head. So, as I will, I acted like an irritated asshole to start. It was the only thing I could do to cover my nerves at being close to him, being able to touch him. To feel the shifting muscles of his back as he moved, the calloused tips of his fingers as he let them graze against the back of my hand.  
He'd been so patient. I simply got lost in the dance, allowing myself to imagine that things were different. That he and I were...that we were able to...

But we were not. Not then.

So in the end I had to thank him for his help, standing painfully far away from him as I did.

My whole body was cold, the absence of him near to me making me ache. It was rather wooden, my goodbye. I lingered longer than I aught to have, but I couldn't help entertain the hope that I might be asked to stay. If only he would have said it. Just asked. I would have stayed forever. I would have taken him into his bedroom and done _unspeakable_ things to his beautiful body.   
But he did not ask. And I would not. So I turned away and actually trudged down the 17 steps that led out into the street. Soon the moment, and the man, felt far, far away from me. 

Of course, I thought about nothing else for the entirety of the afternoon.

I decided to have a wash that evening and try to put it out my head. I could laugh at myself for that idea. Put HIM out of my head? Not bloody likely.  
So then it was just me, naked and alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and the way his lips curved into a little smile when I started holding a little too tightly while we practiced that simple waltz. Thoughts of the rumble of his voice as he gently instructed me on where to step, how to move, how to hold him to dip properly.

There really is nothing like a hot shower to let your mind wander down dangerous paths of want and need and " _oh god, yes._ "

I didn't make a noise, wouldn't allow even a whimper escape my lips as I took myself in my hand and stoked desperately, all those feelings building and building to the point of absolute desire.

I had to shove a flannel into my mouth to keep myself quiet, knowing that Mary was about. But with the water running over my shoulders and the memory of Sherlock; his hands guiding me and his perfect, form fitting suit and his deep chuckle as I tripped over my feet... I simply couldn't control how much I _wanted_. So I let myself think of him, let the images wash over me, let the scent of him linger in my nose while I leaned heavily against the wall of the shower and rubbed along my hard prick, panting and teasing until I spilled myself with a silent cry, wave after wave of pleasure surging through my body.

At the time, it was such a relief.

But then I felt empty. Startlingly so. Slumping down onto the floor of the shower, tears burned my eyes while I hugged my legs close to my chest. I missed him so much, and he was not even that far away. But he had never felt so completely out of reach. Not since he was dead.   
While that had not been the first time I had let myself indulge in a fantasy about my enigmatic friend, it was the first time I had done so with the knowledge that we could never be together. And that I was the reason for that reality.

My heart broke. Not the first time. Certainly wouldn't be the last. I knew, at that moment, that I loved him.   
Salty steams lingered with water pouring from the shower head as I bit back into the flannel and rested my head against my knees. I sat there until the water went cold and Mary knocked gently on the door. I turned off the taps and dried off, telling myself that I was doing the honorable thing. That Sherlock would never feel the way I felt, and Mary loved me. So I would do the right thing. The traditional, proper, pleasing thing. 

I was such an idiot.

 

I looked up and, with a sense of surprise, realized that I was standing outside our door.

The rain had started to fall properly, and little rivets of water ran down my neck. I glanced up at the window, noticing a shadow pass away from them. Sherlock had been watching me, which made me wonder.

How long had I been standing there for?

My cheeks felt warm and I could feel the press of my cock against my trousers.  
Thinking of Sherlock. It really did a number on me.

I pulled on my jacket and stepped forward, setting my key in the lock and stepping out of the rain. As I shut the door behind myself, I reached down and adjusted the semi-erect distraction that was trapped behind denim and cotton. Then I took of my jacket and started my way up the steps, wondering with each footfall how I was going to go forward. My heart was racing so hard in my chest, I thought I might have a heart attack right there on the stairs. Every attempt to rationalize, to make a plan, to form a proper thought, was chased away by swarms of bees and butterflies that were wreaking havoc in my chest. As I reached to top stair, my hand began to tremble visibly, reaching toward the metal knob.  

"Steady on, Watson. Easy, now."

The door opened, and the glow of lamp and firelight welcomed me back. And there he was. Waiting.


	5. To Speak

 

The rainwater continued to trickle down my neck, making me shiver in spite of myself as I paused in the doorway. I could feel my shirt sticking to my skin around my shoulders, where the jacket had proved ineffective against the weather. The fizzing feeling in my stomach and the fluttering in my chest took my breath for a moment as I stood in trepidation between the internal monologue that had brought me home and the difficult task of putting that journey into words. Sherlock was seated in his chair, his hands steepled in front of his chin as he regarded me from across the room. I cleared my throat and closed the door, hanging my jacket up on the wall. My heart was hammering in my chest, and while the wet cloth that clung to me should have chilled me, I was uncomfortably warm. Thankfully, he spoke first.

"I got a text from my dear brother..."

I could feel my eyebrows knit together as I turned toward him.

"He wished for me to know that you were out being abomanibly rude to traffic cameras." He said, a small grin creeping up one side of his mouth. I laughed quietly, feeling the air come back into the room.

"I knew that daft...does he really have nothing better to do than spy on you and I?"

Sherlock's shoulders shook with a silent chuckle.

I could feel myself calming down as the ease of our friendship offered me it's unyielding comfort. I crossed the floor and took my place in my favorite chair. The fire was burning low and the light in the room changed with it. He smiled at me briefly before looking me over. 

"You were out for quite a while. You're soaking."

I shrugged it off, trying not to give away everything in my expression before my words had a chance. 

"I didn't expect it to rain like it did. Not sure why. We live in bloody London."

His lips pressed together tightly as he looked me up and down. I felt myself growing increasingly nervous again. Whatever he was thinking, it was troubling his mind. I felt myself clench my fist tightly and release it, gripping the arm of my chair. His eyes tracked the movement of my fingers, but his face remained as it was. Neutral, with a hint of worry. 

"How was Rosie?"

He blinked at me like I hadn't spoken in minutes. Then he stood suddenly, and with unexpected energy he reached for a notebook he had left on his desk. 

"I've been continuing the musical preference experiments with her. Thus far he has responded well to Brahms and Beethoven, but she is particularly fond of Mozart, especially the piano concertos, which is a bother, seeing as I do not have an piano at my disposal. The violin will do, for now." He told me, holding out a list of compositions that I would not recognize if they hit me in the face, which they nearly did.  
I leaned back and marveled at how long the list was. I had known he was playing for her. He did so nearly every day. But this...this was interesting. He wanted to know what her favorite songs were. He wanted to be able to play them to her. I felt myself smiling at him as he continued to pace around the room, carrying on about which composers he would have to test with her, and how soon she could start to learn to play herself.

"-she seems to have a real interest. But she is full young to start up on piano lessons. Perhaps one of those children's toy ones, with the horrid pitch. I suppose I could endure the sound for a few years...if that was alright with you. I mean...I..." He stopped his restless movements and lowered his arms, standing in the middle of the room like all the wind had just left his sails. 

"I don't mean to assume, John, that you and Rosie will be here forever. Or that I have any right deciding on things like...like music lessons. But she is...endlessly fascinating. More so than I originally presumed. But...please don't think I am overstepping." He said, looking me right in the eyes with an expression of honest concern. Even a hint of something deeper than that. He was not just worried. He was a little hurt at the thought that I would resent his actions, or reprimand him for his involvement in planning her future. My face must have crumpled in that moment, because his eyes widened slightly in the next quick second. 

No. This would not do. He still thought I had intentions to leave. He still believed that I was just a man leaning on his best mate for a little while. That I saw my future without him and I on the same street, under the same roof, in the same bed...

I stood. Too quickly. The room swam in my vision as the adrenaline of concern for him overtook the worry over my hidden feelings. For his sake. For my sake. He had to finally know.

He stiffened visibly as I approached him, my head lowered while I thought quickly about what I was going to say to him. Nothing came to mind. I was running on the energy of the moment, and had to trust myself to do right.   
Ohhh, that was a terrifying feeling. 

"J-John?" He said as I looked up, finding myself closer to him than would have been appropriate for nearly any other conversation aside from this one. His eyes were wide and uncertain. Once again, I wanted to smile, but I couldn't. He was perfectly adorable with that innocent, questioning look on his face. I steeled myself for whatever might come next, and I reached out my hand to where his hung at his side. He watched me move, unbelieving, his fingers unresponsive to the touch, but as my own brushed against his knuckles and gently slid their way into his, I felt them tighten slightly around mine. 

Now, I could let a small grin pass over my lips as I looked back up into the waiting gaze of my friend. His eyes, pale and gleaming, roved over my features, looking for understanding. And I realized, he was as lost as I. 

All my anxiety left me, the buzzing chased away my the savage breaking of my heart as I saw the reflection of my own hopefulness, my own doubt cross his beautiful face. 

"Sherlock-" I had to pause, my voice shaking and my eyes filling with threatening heat. "Sherlock, you must never... _please..._ never apologize to me for how you care for Rosie." 

He kept his face close to impassive, but he blinked a few times too many. I brought our joined hands between us and set my other one on top of his, holding it gently, but firmly. He did not look away from me. 

"I don't know how you ever came to believe that I would want to leave you again. But that is simply not the case. Never. That will never be the case."

His lips parted slightly and I heard him suck in a breath. He still wasn't moving, his back rigid and his hand motionless between mine. I furrowed my brow, looking at him with rapidly returning fear.   
Had I said too much?  
Was this not what he wanted?  
What would I do if he refused me now? 

In my head all I could hear was the thunder of my heartbeat and the repeat chorus of 'Oh god, oh god, oh god-'

"Sherlock?"

He seemed to come back to himself, focusing once more and letting out a breath. He gripped my hand tighter. 

"John. John, I have been living in doubt for so long now. It's rather embarrassing, actually. The detective who cannot solve the mystery of whether his best friend might...might want...I just find that...I could not. I cannot..."

My eyes betrayed my every fear as he stumbled. He couldn't. No. I couldn't let him tell me no. Not before I had my chance. My heart moved into my throat, the hands that clasped his growing damp. And he could feel it. He could see the panic in my features. I felt his free hand slide over my damp shoulder, holding me steady.

"John. I just. Despite all the evidence I have kept locked in my mind palace through the years, I am so...so afraid that...that I am wrong. I don't want to be wrong this time." He nearly groaned, his frustration driving him mad as his gaze lowered. "This. This is so much more difficult than I - but I -"

"I'm in love with you."

The room fell into perfect silence. Sherlock's eyes shot up to meet mine. The fire cracked behind the grate. A car passed on the street outside. He blinked at me a few times, his expression unreadable. So I lifted my chin and, in defiance of my fears, spoke once again. 

"Sherlock Holmes, you great bloody berk. I am in love with you."

 


	6. To Feel

  It was over. I'd said it. Out loud. Twice.

My god.

It was like I was floating. I had no idea what has happening for a few good seconds, feeling the weight that had been crushing my chest for seemingly endless years finally lift. 

Setting myself free. That's exactly what it felt like. 

I was staring at the ceiling, a smile spreading over my lips like butter, wanting to laugh and wanting to weep all at once. I squeezed the hand I was holding, warm and large in my own and realized that I was in the moment alone. 

My eyes fell onto the face of the man standing opposite me. The man I had just confessed my feelings for. The man who had not blinked for longer than could possibly be comfortable. His gaze was intense, his mouth set in the shape of a perfect little 'o' of surprise, a hint of pink in the highest arches of his cheeks. I had not seem him look at me that way before. I would have been nervous if I didn't find him so damn beautiful. 

I took my hand from it's place atop his and raised it to cup his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed as he let out a sigh and leaned his head toward my palm.  'Good, then.'

"Sherlock?" 

He opened his eyes and I felt the oxygen leave my lungs. His pupils were dark, overtaking the swirling green and blues I was so accustomed to seeing. His lips slacked slightly, and I watched them relax into their usual tempting shape. I dragged my gaze back to meet his, which remained steady, if not heavier.

"John..."

"Yes?" 

"John, you're not?" 

"Not gay?"

He nodded once, succinct and stern, but his eyes continued to betray him.

"No. I'm not...well, I'm. I don't know what you want to call it. Don't think it matters, actually."

He looked confused at first, his face bunching into a mess of thoughtful lines. Then his forehead smoothed and his lovely mouth frowned at me. 

"All this time, and you never let on. Why?"

I felt my shoulder raise and fall in a shrug, my hand sliding down his ivory neck and coming to rest on his shoulder in a mirrored stance of his own.

"I thought I had." I said, looking at his mouth again, disliking the turn down at it's edges. "That first night, when we had dinner. But you seemed wholly uninterested. I suppose after that I didn't want to...scare you away."

His head dropped. I felt my heart drop with it. I bit into my bottom lip and waited. His shoulders shuddered, and my hand tightened around his. When he spoke again, his voice was wobbling and damp.

"Oh,  _John._ I..." He took a breath, then seemed to chuckle soundlessly, his face still turned down. I lowered my head in an attempt to catch his eye, and he looked away from me and raised his face to the wall.  
"There's always  _something."_

He smiled at me then, and I caught the shimmer of a tear lingering in his dark lashes. 

"You don't like that you couldn't figure it out?" I said, a hint of teasing in my voice.

His smile widened, even as I watched him try to scowl. I laughed, a light, honest laugh at his conflicting expressions and what they said to me. It seemed that was enough to tip the scales and he followed me into a truly ridiculous fit of giggling.

The hand that lay on my shoulder slid down my arm and softly squeezed my bicep, pulling me closer. My heart fluttered into my mouth as I moved toward him, every fiber of my being suddenly completely awake and vibrating. But he didn't kiss me. Not yet.   
He pulled me close and let his gorgeous lips brush against the shell of my ear as he whispered, the timbre of his voice shaking into my very soul.

"John Watson. I am deeply, maddeningly in love with you."

My eyes closed and my mouth fell open as I pressed my cheek against his and slid my arm across the wing of his shoulder blade. I heard a gasp, and realized too late that it was me as I felt his lips press against the pulse in my neck. His hand released mine and I felt them slide onto my hips as another kiss landed on my jaw. 

I was dizzy. I was euphoric. I was crying and I didn't even realize it as I turned my head and caught his next kiss on my mouth, pressing into him with my lips and chest. He sucked in a breath when out lips met, then let a short, broken moan escape. 

My free hand travelled back up to touch his face, to feel with my hand how his jaw moved as his lips danced against my own. His scent, sweet and rich and masculine, filled my nose and my head as I clutched his back and kissed him fiercely. My tongue flicked tentatively against his lips, waiting for the yield of permission that followed. He tasted like sugar and smoke, subtle and warm. The hands on my hips tightened, then slid around my waist and pull my body flush against him. 

There was no hiding it, now. I was quickly and painfully aroused, and the contact with his thigh ripped a groan free from my throat. I heard a gasp escape him and felt, with unabashed joy, the heat and press of his own arousal. 

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock."  I whispered, our lips parting briefly as we struggled for breath. 

"Yes." He moaned, kissing my lips over and over. "Anything, John. Everything." 

I whimpered against his mouth as he pressed himself into me, his words so full of feeling that I thought I might break. I let my hands rove over his lithe, muscular frame as I moved him across the floor until I had him pressed against the door. I reached for the buttons of his shirt and began pulling them open with precise movements. He let his lips leave mine and I looked up at him. I felt myself throbbing harder as I took in the expression on his face. 

His eyes were nearly black, his posh, perfect mouth open and reddened from our kisses, and that touch of pink had spread over the arch of his cheekbones. He appeared to be the personification of sex, and I wanted him with such need as I had never known.

His shirt fell off his shoulders and I leaned into his throat, feeling it's rapid pulse under my tongue. The noise that left him made my body break into gooseflesh, cold and hot at once. I sucked and nibbled on the fair, thin skin, working my way down to his pectoral as I felt his hands tug at my damp jumper, pulling it up with impatience. I laughed breathy laugh before I let him pull it off of me completely and was left with my chest exposed to him. Then we stood, staring at each other as though we had never truly done before. And that would be true. I had never allowed myself to look at him like  _this._ With my desire for him completely unhidden, my heart exposed as much as my skin.

My eyes skipped over the landmarks of his frame. His collarbones that seemed too pronounced, the muscles under the fair skin of his chest, the dip of his navel and the dark hair that trailed down and disappeared into the expensive material of his trousers. And the very visible bulge that pressed against said trousers. I felt myself throb again, my heart beating wildly fast and my mouth watering at the sight.

Then my gaze fell upon the small scar that lived on his abdomen. The size of a bullet. And my mind stopped and my stomach dropped. The small, glaring reminder that would live on his body forever. That I had chosen to turn away. It hurt everything inside me.

I reached out to touch the mark, my fingers trembling as I recalled the moment I found him and thought that...that he was...

"John."

I looked up, torn out of my thoughts by the sound of his voice. He was looking at me with a soft sadness in his eyes. I felt mine prickle again. 

"God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I'm so...I'm so sorry." I said, my voice suddenly broken. 

His hands reached out, one sliding over the twisted scar on my shoulder from my own violent brush with death. He pulled me closer. Our chests were inches from touching as he traced the lines of my scars with one hand and held me firmly in place with the other. 

He licked his lips before he spoke.

"Our pasts are finished. They were not perfect. But had they been, we would not be here, now." He said, one eyebrow raising as he looked into my eyes. 

I ached, and countered. "Yes, but Sherlock-" 

He shook his head, placing his fingertips against my lips.

"No, John. Not now. Not when I get to hold you like this. Finally."

His palm slid up my spine and made me shiver in pleasure from the touch. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips again, leaving me speechless, a lump in my throat keeping any words from finding their way through. I slipped my hands around his body and leaned my face into the hollow of his throat until I felt calm wash over me. 

"I love you, Sherlock."

I felt his lips brush against my temple. "I love you, John." He placed another kiss  there and dragged his hands across my shoulders, feeling every curve of muscle and bone. 

"Now, Doctor." he said, his voice teasing and dangerously low. "I need you to take me to bed."

 

 


	7. Released

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets an M rating. Fair warning!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've written anything like this. So, let me know what you think. And I certainly do hope you enjoy.

 

 

I wasn't quite sure why I was laughing into the soft skin of his shoulder. Something about the tone of his voice had always had an affect on me. Usually south of the equator. Usually without him noticing (I had hoped).  
But this time, when he spoke to me with that sexy, teasing, private-school accent, there was no hiding the fact that my body was straining to be free of the confines of the denim it was still encumbered by. My heart was beating as though we had just been running through the streets and ally ways of the city. All the tension we had experienced between us, sweet and tempting, was suddenly allowed to exist. To thrive. To be explored in ways that I had only allowed myself to imagine.

 I was so overwhelmed by all of what had passed between he and myself that I laughed. I laughed as the last of my tears spilled free. I laughed as my hands slid over the smooth muscles of his back and the severity of the previous moment melted into memory.

He leaned away from me and looked down as I met his eye with what I am sure was a ridiculous grin. His brow was furrowed, as though he believed I were laughing at him and his offer. But when he had appraised my expression for long enough, his face softened and his eyes shone. My laughter subsided and I basked in the glow of what was a deeply loving smile from  _him._

The love of my life.

The great Sherlock Holmes.

I had never seen anything so beautiful. My eyes skipped down to his lovely lips, and back up. He leaned down slowly, his eyes fluttering closed and I watched his mouth move toward mine. I wished I could see all of it. I wished I could watch every gorgeous second as my own eyes slipped shut and our mouths melted together in a long, unbroken kiss. 

I hardly noticed his hands sliding down my back, I was so focused on his lips. They were (god), they were everything I imagined. Warm and so, so soft, with an authority to them that I had not expected. I felt myself yearning for more before the kiss had even broken. I wanted. Oh, how I wanted.

I let my body move closer to his, closing those few inches of space so that we were pressed together, skin and against skin and fabric against fabric. I sighed into his mouth as I felt him smile against mine. Before I could question it, his hands curved under my backside and suddenly lifted me off the ground.   
I was not expecting that.

A moment later I was the one pinned against the door, my legs wrapped around the waist of my best friend, my arms holding tightly to his shoulders, and my mouth being thoroughly plundered by his tongue. The moan that slipped from my throat was raw and full of need as he answered back with one of his own, deep and dangerous. He pressed his body against mine, holding me up and moving his hips in a slow grind, our erections rubbing hard through bunching trousers. The kiss broke as my head fell back against the door, overwhelmed by the sensations. My brain felt flooded, and it was all I could do to not weep again.

"Oh, Christ. Ohhh, Sherrrlock."

His teeth were on my collarbone, his hands still firmly on my arse as he pushed against me again and again. He was gasping out loud as he moved, little sounds escaping his mouth with each breath. I let one hand travel into his hair, running my fingers through the soft curls roughly, wanting to take him as much as I wanted to be taken. I closed my fingers and gave a gentle tug, lifting his face back up to mine. He inhaled roughly through his teeth as he looked at me, and I pulled a little more, exposing the long white column of his neck. I couldn't help myself. I dove toward it, biting a sucking on the skin, running my tongue along his vein and up to his ear. 

"Ohh..."

That little sound. I wanted more out of him. I let my teeth close gently around his earlobe a moment before releasing it and licking along the edge. His hips ground harder and I gasped, resulting in a low moan of pleasure from my companion. I whispered, trying in vain to control my voice.

"Sher-oh. Sherlock. We...oh, we need to move. Oh, fuck. We need to move, or this will be over before I get you undressed. P-please. Sherlo-ohhh..."

He hummed his appreciation of my pleading and slowed his hips, but did not stop. Pulling back enough to look me in the eye, he was breathing hard and taking in my expression with great focus. Then he smiled, his face flushed and his eyes dark. He leaned close and let his lips brush my cheek. 

"As you wish, my love."

His hands loosed and I was lowered back to my feet, my heart swelling from his words. I had no idea that Sherlock would be so...tender. I had imagined the man would either approach lovemaking with the same studious, scientific manner he took on other parts of his life, or he would be inexperienced and jittery with the intimacy. Yet here was a man who was clearly comfortable with his own sexuality, and the confidence to both take control and give it. I was stunned. Absolutely stunned.

I reached out and took his hand, stepping out from between he and the door and walking backward toward his bedroom. He followed me, his chest rising and falling roughly, his movements almost feline. This man. He was fucking gorgeous. I wondered, as we passed through the doorway to his bedroom, how on earth he could want  _me._

"Don't do that." 

I blinked, my line of thought abandoned.

"Sorry?"

His head tilted like an owl.

"Thinking like that. Don't."

I smiled in spite of myself. 

"How the hell did you-"

"John. How long have you known me?"

I laughed ruefully. 

"God. Nearly ten years, Sherlock."

He did not smile.

"And in those years, John...all the time, I have never wanted anyone. No one but you." He stated, closing the gap between us and bringing a large hand to my jaw.  
"Do not doubt me, John Watson. Do not doubt my desire for you. Ever."

I swallowed hard, staring into his face and allowing myself to see the real longing displayed there. I took his hand in mine and brought his fingers to my mouth, letting myself kiss each one and drag my lips over the knuckles. He shivered.

"I've wanted this for so long, Sherlock. I didn't think you would. But I don't doubt your feelings. I am just...awed by them."

I licked lightly at the tip his thumb and heard him suck in a breath.  
"I will never doubt you again." 

"And I will never give you reason to." He whispered.

I ran my hands into his hair again, loving that I was free to do so as our mouths crashed together, his hands cradling my face as though I were the most precious creature on earth. We began stepping together, moving toward the welcoming expanse of Sherlock's bed.

As soon as my legs touched it I flipped him onto his back, grinning at his surprised expression as he fell into the waiting blankets and soft pillows. I was on him in an instant, my knee between his legs, forcing them to open. He did not oppose my invasion, instead reaching for me, pulling me on top of his body and into a deep, messy kiss. My hands skated up and down his chest, then passed over his belt and rubbed tentatively against the bulge that remained regretfully hidden from me. His hips moved up, pushing against my touch. 

"Mmmmm."

I pulled my hand back further, and he pushed higher to try and get contact.

"Oh, you do want it, don't you?" I growled, my fingers tracing the outline of his cock through his trousers.

He groaned as though in pain, his words ripping from his chest. " _Oh, John_. Quit _teasing_ me, for gods sake!"

I smiled, feeling powerful and predatory as I watched him writhe beneath me. 

"What do you say, Sherlock? Hmm?" 

His eyes fell closed and he bit at his plump bottom lip. "Oh, John.  _please."_

I felt myself pressing against his thigh, the sight of him like this making me want to let go and fuck him into the mattress. I let out a shaky breath, leaning down to whisper into his ear.

"Say that again."

His words were like a purr, and my skin tingled as they left his lips a second time. 

" _Please, John. Oh, please."_

_"Yes, Sherlock. Anything."_

I pushed my palm against him and was rewarded by a deep and desperate sound of pleasure. His hands reached for my belt and fumbled it open in moments, his fingers grabbing at the zip and pulling it down. I closed my eyes as his hand dove beneath the fabric of my pants and seized my aching cock with his long fingers. I knew I was making sounds, but I'm not sure any of them were English. He pulled, his hand already slicked with precome from my throbbing erection. I felt a hot rush in my groin and my face, making it hard to remember what the hell I was doing. Then he moaned, his hips bucking up toward my body, and I would not let him wait another second. 

My battle with his belt was brief, but his trousers were the bloody tailored type with two buttons and a clasp, and I cursed through my pleasure as I tried to focus on the task of undressing him. He huffed a laugh as I swore at the offending clasp and nearly ripped them down, trying to pull them off entirely. I wanted to see him. I wanted to see every inch of his body. I had wanted it for so long. I wanted.  
He lifted his hips and I shimmied them off, regretfully having to pull away from his touch. Soon both sets of bottoms were heaped on the floor and his hands were pulling down my pants. When I managed to kick mine off my feet, I slid his down as well, exposing his slim hips and pale thighs and (buggering hell) his absolutely gorgeous cock. 

I hung over him a moment, my own prick dripping and heavy, as I took in the sight of him. I was staring, absolutely. Staring at his body like I had never known sex until I saw him. I must've been gaping, because once again his voice pulled me back. 

"John, if you don't touch me now I'm going to lose my mind."

I looked up at him, at his lips parted around each ragged breath and his features overtaken by the flush of arousal, and his dark, dark eyes that looked as though they would swallow me up. And I felt so much more than the need for sex. I felt the need for  _him._ All of him. All of his love and all of his desire and all of his hopes and all of his heart.

He grinned affectionately as he brushed his knuckles against my cheek and took my chin in his hand. I felt him guiding me forward until our lips met, the kiss full of hungry passion. I lowered my hips toward his until our bodies slotted together, his hard, hot flesh against mine; like calling to like. The rush of feeling made me dizzy as our choked moans mingled in our joined mouths. My hands were bracing myself up on either side of his head as my hips started their movement against his naked body. Our lips parted as I pressed harder into him, a cry breaking from him as he pushed back.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, Johhhn-"

I gasped and groaned, unable to stop myself from letting the little blessings and curses tumble from my lips. It was so good. So perfect. My mind was swimming somewhere in the night, but my body knew what it needed. It needed him. Oh, so badly.

"Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. Oh christ, love. Oh-"

His fingers dug into the flesh of my backside and he pressed his hips up hard into me. His eyes screwed shut as he tried not to shout, my name falling from his mouth like a prayer.

"John, Jo-oh!"

His hands gripped tighter, our breaths becoming rapid and our thrusts falling out of rhythm. There was no more thinking. No more control, just the sweet push and pull of carnal bliss. I felt tension coiling in my body like a spring, building higher and higher. I wouldn't last much longer like this. And oh, I didn't want to.

Sherlocks voice rippled out of his chest, a warning and a beg and whimper all at once.

"Jo-John-Oh. Yes, John! I-I-fffuu-ohh!"

I felt the twitch of his cock and the sudden warmth of ejaculate against my abdomen, as his head pressed back into the bedding, his mouth open and his eyes closed. My own body lost any remaining control, thrusting hard against him as I came with a broken shout. I tried desperatley to watch his climax while being swept away in my own, hearing myself sob his name as I bucked against him one last time, and collapsed into his body. 

And we breathed.

Just breathed, unable to move for a few moments as we recovered ourselves. I looked up to his face, unable to form a sentence for everything I felt. He was looking down at me, lying against his chest in the darkness of his room. He smiled. In the darkness, I almost couldn't see it. But there was a shimmering line trailing from his eye. A tear rolled away and disappeared into the wild hair that framed his face. I reached out and brushed the line with my fingertips, hoisting myself up to his look directly into his eyes. He sniffed and let out a short laugh.

"Sentiment. Who knew?"

I rolled off of him and pulled so that he turned against me, resting his head on my chest. I kissed him through his hair, my hands running over his shoulders, neck, jaw and cheek.

"You did, you idiot. You knew all along."

He sighed against me and I felt his lips press against my skin as his arm wrapped around my waist, not minding for the moment, the sticky mess that remained there. He hummed happily, and I felt my chest swelling with pride at having him, this dangerous, brilliant man, sated and peaceful in my arms.

"Sherlock?" I asked, looking down.

"Yes?"

I felt myself grinning, unable to resist. 

"I made you beg for mercy."

He chuckled against my skin, making me shiver.

"Hmm, it would seem you did. Thrice."

 


	8. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not posting for so long. Had a bit too much going on in my life of late, but I was happy to grab a short opportunity to write this morning. I've decided to keep the tale going a bit longer, as the domestic life of John and Sherlock is gorgeous and deserves a little exploring. I hope you all enjoy and continue to visit for updates. Thanks for sticking with me! xo

 

 

 

The sweet pull of slumber tugged at my mind, willing me to close my eyes and slip into it's peaceful, waiting darkness. The lanky detective in whose bed I lay remained loosely wrapped around my frame, warm puffs of his breath beating against my shoulder. I turned my head to look at him; his hair tangled around his oddly beautiful features, dark eyelashes fluttering gently as he slept.  How could I have waited so long? How could I have resisted my feelings for him for so many years? God, he was so gorgeous, so brilliant...and beyond a doubt the only person on earth I had ever felt as close to. It's as though he were my other half, long separated and searching for each other until this evening. Now that I had told him, I couldn't imagine living another moment without him. 

I let my hand slide up his smooth side, feeling the warmth under my palm and calling to memory each dip and curve of his body. Leaning toward him, I let my lips press against his hairline, at once to kiss and to smell. The resulting head-rush was deeply gratifying. Christ, I'd never been so in love. Never felt anything as sweet and deep and wild. 

Earlier on, he had whined when I pulled myself out of bed to grab the baby monitor and a flannel to clean us both up. I had laughed at him, seeing the same petulant neediness coming out in his tendencies as a boyfriend as they had as a flatmate. But he waited, none the less, and was grateful for the chance to clean up without having to haul his lean body off the mattress. Afterward, he thanked me with a series of long, slow kisses that made me melt into the bed next to him. It was incredible, if somewhat strange. He was the first man with whom I had experienced any real sexual contact. When I was in the army I had fancied a fellow, but nothing more than that. The army is a dangerous place for that sort of thing, despite what people may think. We spent a bit of time together when we could, but only as mates and I never discovered if he had harbored any feelings for me. It wasn't until I met Sherlock that I saw myself in danger of truly falling in love with a man. It had felt like I had been struck by lightening. But not once had I touched a man sexually, or kissed anyone of my own gender more than a stupid drunk peck on the cheek followed by reams of laughter and usually a fist-fight. 

  
I thought it would be more frightening, really.

When he pulled me against him in the living room, I was taken aback by how good and natural it felt. Part of me had honestly expected that i would need more time to adjust. That it would take more talking between us and more internal rallying before I would feel as good as I did when I undressed his slim body. But it didn't. Not one bit of me wanted to hold back, not one voice of doubt raised itself, even as I felt the stubble of his cheek drag against my lips or the obvious male strength of his body matching my own. It wasn't frightening. It wasn't strange. It liberating. It was equality and honesty and pure, raw love. And it was my solemn wish, as my fingertips danced along his rib cage, to experience those feelings for the rest of my life. 

 

 

The mattress moved and I felt myself swim into consciousness. The room was empty, the sound of Rosie's little cries coming through on the monitor. I sat up stiffly, rolling my shoulder and feeling it pop. Shifting to stand, I heard Sherlock's voice carry through and stopped.

"Hey there. Oh, come now, poppet. Come here, then..."

Her cries changed to babbles, the sound muffling now and then, as though Rosie were burying her face against Sherlock and lifting it up to admonish him again. His voice was gentle with her. Gentle and patient. My heart ached as I listened, enjoying the opportunity to be eavesdropping on a little moment between them. I could hear him shushing her as she carried on.  I felt myself smiling. 

"Yes, dearest. I know. Daddy is usually right here with you. But tonight he's sleeping downstairs. Shh, it's alright. He's home. He's really home, now."

I felt my eyes grow suspiciously warm and sniffed back the traitorous liquid that pooled in them. Rosie's voice calmed, her fierce babbles slowing into little mewls, like a kitten. 

"Shhh, little one. Daddy loves you." The sound of a little yawn followed by silence. The rustling blankets carried through the monitor, followed by a sigh.

"Sherlock loves you, too." 

Silence. Rosie had gone back to bed without fuss, without bottle. I wasn't sure if my heart could take any more tonight, while wondering if I would ever get enough of this.

 

The shuffle of footsteps outside the bedroom door and I turned toward him. 

"Oh. You're awake." He said, his voice still edged with the softness he had used on Rosie. I felt a smile stretch across my face.

"Yeah." I said, shifting myself back onto the bed and holding my hand up to him. In the dim light that filtered through the window, I watched him slip out of his blue robe, it falling like water off of his body. He pushed down his joggers without a moments hesitation. I felt the air leave my lungs. I had seen him naked earlier that evening, yes. But it still hit me like a train when he undressed himself in front of me again. He sat on the bed and turned toward me, pulling the blankets over his body. He hesitated, looking at me questioningly. 

"Are you...is this alright?"

I huffed a quick laugh as I reached for him, leaning toward him and swiftly catching his lips with my own. I heard him suck in a breath, then let it go in one long exhale as his arm wrapped around my back. As I pulled away, I placed a quick kiss against the tip of his nose. 

"It's more than alright, Sherlock." I said, pulling him close, running my hand across his collarbones and up his neck, staring at him with worship in my eyes. Unable to help myself, I let my mouth move toward his again and whispered, "Nothing has ever been more perfect."

I heard him sigh as our lips met again, moving gently and softly against one another. His hand splayed across my back and he leaned forward, laying me back against the bed and kissing me with intention. I felt myself growing hard again, and I hoped that he was caught up in the same feeling. My hands wandered down his long back to timidly run over the sweet, sweeping curve of his backside. He nudged his hip forward slightly, his half-hard cock touching my thigh. I felt myself smiling as he kissed me again and again, not bothering to ask for permission as his large hand reached between our bodies to touch me. I sighed a soft moan as he stroked and caressed me, the pleasure building quickly. I pulled him up against my body and slipped my own hand between us to tentatively touch him as well. He sucked a breath in through his nose as my hand skated against his hot, silky skin, releasing the air as a low rumble against my mouth. 

I could hardly believe I was doing this. The first time had been all passion and need. I had hardly had the faculties to truly take in what was happening, my want for him was so strong. And it had been fantastic. Amazing, even. But this time...this was all slow movement and soft kisses against his mouth. This was feeling his heat and his lust, taking him in my hand and offering as much pleasure as I could give him. Wanting still, but really feeling. Discovering. Knowing. 

He twisted his fist around me and I gasped, his hand already slicked nicely thanks to my apparently bottomless desire for him. He groaned against my lips, my name rolling from his throat and making my head swim. I pushed myself closer, our fists moving, bumping against one another as our cocks brushed and our breaths became ragged. He pulled me against him with his free hand, his other wrapping around his erection as well as mine. I moaned desperately, overcome by how erotic the action was. My own fist clumsily held on to his, circling around both of us and moving up and down slowly. My hips pushed into our joined hands and against him. He moved his pelvis forward as well, and we fell into a slow, broken rhythm. Soon there was only thrusting and squeezing and whispering to each other in the dark of the night. 

It wasn't long before I was lost to the swift tide of pleasure, feeling myself tipping over the edge suddenly. My hips jutted forward, his name falling from my lips in a soft cry. I heard a keening sound leave him as he fell into orgasmic bliss as well, our bodies pushing against each other as we wrung out ever last drop and fell slack onto the bed. There were once again the heavy sound of breathing as he and I came back down from the high of sex. He leaned toward me, his damp forehead pressing against mine. 

"Christ, John." 

I felt myself laugh as he kissed me again, sweet and solid. When we broke apart, I looked down at the mess we'd left on the blankets and each other, an impish grin crossing my face. 

"It's a good thing we didn't get rid of that flannel..." I said, leaning over the side of the bed to where we had tossed it carelessly hours before. When I turned back, he grimaced. 

"Dirty flannel, John? Where are your standards?" 

I rolled my eyes. " Get used to it, pretty boy. It's just a little come." I said, winking at him. 

I felt him laughing more than I heard it, wiping the dribbling ejaculate off of the smooth skin of his stomach. Once I had gotten the bulk of it, I tossed the flannel back onto the floor. He shook his head at me, a smiling disapproval on his face. 

"Remind me never to trust a discarded towel in the future." 

I smirked, reaching up and brushing the dark curls away from his eyes. He blinked at me suddenly, his brows crinkling together. 

"John...did you just call me pretty?"

I smiled at him. God, he was adorable sometimes, and I was free to enjoy it completely. 

"Pretty? Yes." I said, leaning him back into the pillows and placing a kiss to his soft, pliant mouth. "But fucking gorgeous would be more on the mark."

He sighed into my kiss and held me close to him, the feeling of his heartbeat against my own bringing us back into the sweet place of dreaming as the night drew to an end.


End file.
